


In For a Penny

by Tatami_Hokes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Basira's here because I want her to be plot be dammed, Jon is a bit lost, M/M, Martin's a bit lonely, Spoilers for the entire podcast duhhh, it's appreciating Basira hours, post 160
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tatami_Hokes/pseuds/Tatami_Hokes
Summary: Martin and Jon are trying to have a relationship here, can the massive eye in the sky and the people made of wasps just chill out for a hot minute?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I'm Big Sad that tma is gone until April so I'll be writing this until then, as a way to cope. Literally just wanted to write about the apocalypse squad sooooo  
> Hopefully updating weekly-ish  
> Also Jon is ace representation and im ace, i gotta write about that  
> enjoy lads x

Martin Blackwood had lied on his CV when applying to The Magnus Institute. He had then lied to his friends about conquering his first step on the career ladder as an archival assistant, because it had become painfully apparent a few months into his tenure that he would not be progressing beyond that point. 

He was a liar, it was how he’d survived in a world that spared no pity for an underachiever. Survival had a different meaning now, though, and perhaps, a truer meaning. His life, so far, had prepared him for his job at the archives, and for looking after his mother, who hated him so much she couldn't bear to look at him. It had not, in his opinion, prepared him very well to combat 14 fears that had recently manifested at the hands of his former (?) boss. It had also done absolutely nothing to help him process the fact that he had not only fallen in love with his boss, but fallen in love with some sort of all-seeing entity that served a Lovecraftian horror.

Things were only made less complicated in the fact that he also served said horror. All this to say, Martin Blackwood would not have predicted this if asked where he saw himself in ten years. He supposed that, even with all the old coots predicting the apocalypse left right and centre, no one could've really predicted this. He wondered how many doomsday preppers were laughing in their fallout shelters as their neighbours frantically looted bread and milk, because that was the thing to do at the end of days.

The only reason they weren't dead yet was because Basira, a colleague from The Magnus Institute, had spent the last two weeks slowly making her way up the country towards them. She had found Martin and Jon at Daisy’s safe-house, where they had been living a life of domestic bliss, complete with boarded up windows, a Trangia, and a healthy dose of existential dread permeating the small cottage. It didn’t help that Jon didn't seem to have received notice of the apocalypse raging outside, and was determined to leave the safe spot they'd carved out in the Scottish Highlands. 

He was glad Basira had found them, not only because he was sick of one-sided conversations with a man grieving his poor life choices, but because he was almost hilariously unsuited to combat. Basira had been able to track him when, once again drawn by an invisible, inaudible call, Jon had left. He had been doing this with alarmingly increased regularity, though he had never made it as far as the town before. 

He and Basira had driven down in her car, heading into the town, but keeping an eye out for both Jon, and any fear manifestations. It seemed the more built up an area, the more likely it was to encounter an Avatar, so Martin had tried to keep their excursions to a minimum. They parked and left the car behind an old dry cleaners and cautiously made their way further into the town centre.

They found Jon easily. He wasn’t being subtle, just brazenly marching down the middle of the street. Basira stopped in an alleyway which snaked off the main street. He walked past her, peering out the mouth of the alley. As he approached the high-street, Martin willed himself to disappear, the odd feeling of becoming incorporeal washing over him. He still felt the bricks under his palms, the damp chill snaking in through his woollen jumper. He also felt the oddly comforting mists of The Lonely pressing against his skin, not enough to constrict him, just enough to feel isolated. That was the point, he supposed. 

Basira was right behind him, her hand clutching onto his shoulder. She was scared, he could feel her fear now that they occupied the mists together. The Lonely stopped him just short of caring. He was scared too. Everyone was scared now. There was no sense in getting all worked up about it.

They watched Jon as he walked slowly towards the Magnus Institute. Of course, the Institute was about 300 miles south, but they all knew that was his goal. Jon was in a trance, his eyes fixed on a point beyond miles of city and countryside, to the exact spot the Institute stood. There wasn’t much dispute on where he was headed when he started sleepwalking, the only place any archivist worth his salt would go was back to his archives. He stumbled down the middle of the street, his shoes crunching against broken glass. Elias and The Beholder were calling him, and, much like a good statement or scratching Admiral’s head, it was something he could not resist. 

“Plan?” Basira’s voice was too close to his ear. It made him shiver. 

“Right. Plan.” Martin looked around for threats, but the road was remarkably clear. “Um, is it seeming a little…quiet? Like, tense moment before a jump-scare, quiet?”

“Yes.” She shuffled around him, gun in hand. “Something’s not right.”

He snorted. There was a sweet irony to something not being right in a world where the sky they walked under was into voyeurism now. “We’ll just need to grab him and go. Once I get him into the mists, he’ll come back to himself.”

Basira sighed heavily, “If I had known fighting my way up the country to you guys would entail babysitting a wandering idiot, I’d have taken my chances at the institute.”

Martin had told her off before for calling Jon a monster, so she’d compromised and started using ‘idiot’ in its place. If anything, Jon found his new moniker more offensive than the original. He’d much rather have his humanity called into question than his intelligence. 

“The next time he feels like sleepwalking, I’m boarding up that damn safe-house with him inside.” Martin said.

Basira hummed in agreement, “We’re clear.” She said, referring to the street.

He dropped the mists from around them like he was shrugging off a heavy coat and started out into the street.

Click

A freezing wedge of fear drove itself between his lungs and radiated out across his chest. He frantically patted himself down, searching for the source of the noise. There, in his jacket pocket. A tape recorder. 

“Give it here.” Basira growled. She snatched it and dropped it on the ground, driving her heel into the recorder. It gave a pathetic sigh of static as it died.

“Right, that’s not a great sign.” The Eye was interested in documenting whatever was about to happen. Martin looked towards Jon, who was still enrapt with his pilgrimage. 

“I’m gonna grab him, cover me.” He took a step, then added “Please,” because the apocalypse hadn’t robbed him of his manners. 

“Got it.” 

Martin scurried towards Jon. The sense of dread that had made its home in the pit of his stomach for the past few weeks was deepening by the minute. He slowed as he came close to Jon and caught him by the elbow. “Hi.” He muttered. He didn’t seem to notice, but he stopped his sloping walk and stared into the middle-distance.

Jon changed after the world ended. He might’ve looked the same physically; tired, scarred, unkempt, but Martin saw the change in the way he held himself. He knew what to look for from the last time Jon had changed, after he woke from his coma. Obviously seeing him in the halls of the Institute days after waking from a six month coma was, for all intents and purposes, impossible. Since he watched from that locked office as Jane Prentiss almost killed his friends with man-eating worms, his definition of impossible had been, regretfully, rewritten. 

It wasn’t just the guilt that deflated Jon’s posture, or in the darkness of his eyes. It was beyond that. He seemed out of place with Basira, even with Martin. He didn’t belong in a safe-house in the upper reaches of Scotland. He didn’t belong hiding behind closed doors and pretending he still felt fear in the same way they did. He belonged wherever there were statements to be taken, because he wasn’t cowering from the world like everyone else, he was starving himself from the fear that fed him. 

Martin wasn’t scared of Jon, but he knew he was meant to be.

Martin held Jon’s hands in his and willed the mists around them, insulating them both from the world beyond. As soon as the call unheard to Martin was shut out, Jon pitched forward like a puppet with cut strings. He steadied him with shaking hands. The exhaustion of keeping up the mists for so long was getting to him now, they wouldn’t have long to rest.

“Martin? What-?” Jon cut himself off, unwilling to act through the redundancy of asking a question he knew the answer to. 

“You got lost again.” Martin smiled and he was tired. 

“I-I’m..sorry. It’s like a honing beacon, calling me back. I hate to admit it, but.. something in me wants to go back, back to the Archives.” 

“You can’t.” Martin said it like an apology, and in a way, it was. He was a creature of The Beholding, a stray away from the pack, ignoring the calls to come home. It must’ve hurt. It was also another lie. He was good at those. 

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He didn’t say I Know because they’d all become rather bored of hearing that. 

“Sorry. Get ready.” His voice came out strained, “I can’t keep us here any longer.” The mists rolled away. Martin had hoped he could snatch a semi-peaceful moment for just a little longer. 

As soon as the air had cleared, he heard a gunshot ring out. The fear immediately rushed back, like he’d just forgotten about it for a moment. 

Despite his clear exhaustion, Jon stepped protectively in front of him, a scar mottled hand held out. Martin took it and his heart leapt in his chest, rather obtusely, considering the situation. 

“It’s The Slaughter.” Jon said knowingly. “Come on.” He led him towards a ruined shop, front gutted and hanging open. They adopted a crouched run, both completely out of place in this sort of fight. 

Basira had her back against the alley wall, firing blind at a small group of soldiers, the desperate rage clear in their eyes. The soldiers weren’t wearing uniform that Martin could identify, but they looked old, ragged, like they’d been fighting for years. Their guns were old rifles, their muzzles belching out a puff of smoke with every shot. 

“They’re an old battalion. Already dead. They were good men, The Slaughter’s using them for it’s bidding.” Jon answered the question before it had popped into his head. They drew level with Basira and passed her to reach the shattered glass of the shop front.

Martin nodded. He clumsily vaulted over the shop front, through where the glass would’ve been. Jon followed and crouched in front of him, closely followed by Basira, who had fallen back, overwhelmed by The Slaughter’s servants. 

She leant her back against the low wall and checked her bullets, sliding the magazine back in with a shrug. Still calm, she turned and steadied her arms on the wall, and looked to Jon. 

“A little to the left.” He muttered, and she adjusted her aim accordingly. “Now down a bit, and you’ll have a clear shot. Now.” 

She squeezed off a shot and grinned when one went down. Martin studied her eyes for the sharpness of The Hunt, but found only the sleep-deprived eyes of his friend. 

Jon and Basira continued their little back-and-forth, picking off the soldiers slowly but surely. Slow and sure was a good way to survive in the new world. Go in guns blazing and risk joining The Slaughter’s ranks instead. Their unwilling patronage to The Eye was enough to prevent them from getting too sucked into any other fears, but they still had to be careful. 

The last soldier dropped to his knees and Basira looked like she was going to cheer. She reloaded and holstered her gun at her hip with some flourish.

Martin took a steadying breath and felt a little of the fear flee him. He sat back heavily, jostling Basira. He felt stupid in his ineptitude, his backpack a little too big, his coat a little too garish, like a child on their first day of secondary school. Basira slotted neatly into her place in the apocalypse, and Jon belonged in a way he couldn’t. Not that Martin really wanted to become an Avatar of fear anymore than he already had, but he’d like to feel a little less useless. 

“There’s more coming,” Jon said, “The Slaughter knows we’re here and the others will follow.” There was a cool detachment to the statement.

“Great. And I’m almost out of bullets. Not that I can really shoot the dark, or a big expanse of sky that makes us really scared for some reason.” They had encountered these particular fears before, and the way to deal with them was to run very fast in the opposite direction. Basira looked over at the crumpled bodies of the poor battalion, “I don’t think those guys have any ammo on them from this century. Shame.”

“We’ll have to move out quickly then. Basira left the car a few streets over.” Martin turned to her, scrabbling through his backpack and handing her the keys. “I think you’ll make for a better getaway driver.”

She took them and slipped them in her back pocket, “How is it I end up with an all-seeing monster and a disappearing act and I’m the most competent one?”

Martin made a sour face at her word-choice but decided to hold his tongue. She did just save them. Again.

“If you taught me to shoot I could help.” Jon grinned and got up, dusting off his trousers with equally dusty hands. 

“Yeah. Not happening. Anyway, haven’t you got some Archivist power that you can-” 

“No.” He said on a harsh out-breath, the word whistled through his teeth. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t use it.”

“What, you’ll start the apocalypse but you’ll draw the line at helping me?” 

Jon was quiet at that, choosing instead to frown and head towards a door by the cash register. It presumably lead to a stockroom. It pained Martin that he didn’t defend himself; they all knew it wasn’t Jon’s fault. 

“Nice one.” He hissed, though not viscously. He watched as Jon wrestled with the handle, jostling the door as if his Archivist powers might grant him the ability to bypass locked doors. They might, he thought. “I’m gonna check out here for anything useful, just make sure he doesn’t go wandering again. Please.” 

She shrugged apologetically and followed Jon to the back of the shop. She passed him to take point with the door. Martin knew somewhere in her subconscious, she was still police and he was still a civilian that she was responsible for. It didn’t matter than only one of them would be able to survive a fatal injury and it wasn’t her. It was something she’d never be able to shake.

Jon ducked out of her way gracefully, and Basira slammed her foot into the door, which swung open with little resistance. 

Martin watched them search the back of the shop for supplies for a moment, then turned to the shelves. He picked through the meagre selection of magazines and penny sweets that hadn’t already been pillaged rather aimlessly. He pocketed a few Wispa’s and slipped an OK magazine into his backpack. A weak bolt of guilt ran through him for stealing, but he justified himself that they all needed a moral boost. He was only taking what they needed. Chocolate, and the opportunity to laugh at dumb celebrities.

He was about to catch the others up when something caught his eye. A scrap of paper was pinned to a notice board behind the counter. He took a closer look, pulling the push-pin from board to free it. The note was handwritten, and was titled “Help me find my Lisa.”

It was a story about how the author had met his wife, Lisa, who had then been replaced by a ‘witch’ of the same name but not the same face. Attached to the back was a cheap photocopy of a missing persons poster. The photo of Lisa was hard to decipher. Blurry, but not like the actual image was pixelated. More like Martin’s eyes had clouded over and he couldn’t blink them clear enough to properly see Lisa’s photo. Martin could imagine the author, sick with worry, desperately pinning these up in shops that would allow them.

He folded it neatly, spared a sympathetic thought for the author, and thanked his stars for a statement. Jon could regain some strength with this. The statements Basira had bought up with her were running thin. Jon would never admit it, but he was ravenous for information. Martin had tried to give him his statement, but Jon wouldn't have it. He had tried to understand.

He felt a shadow fall over him and he turned to show Jon his find. The breath was knocked out of him as he was grabbed by a thick, meaty hand. It tightened around his throat and threw him at the wall, he barely had the time to throw out his hands blindly before he was grabbed again.

He saw his assailant, a large, muscle-bound woman whose bones shifted ominously beneath her skin. The hand crushed him slowly against the wall, like she was trying to squash him under her palm. Martin would be reduced to a gruesome stain on the shop wall. A fly, swatted. 

“Hello, little boy.” She said in a sing-song voice. 

“I’m thirty.” He managed to wheeze out. He was hardly little.

“Do you want to become part of me?” Her voice was gravelly, almost painful to listen to, rocks tumbling over rocks. 

“N-no.. thanks.” 

The hand closed tighter around his throat, choking off his air as he tried to call for help. The woman leaned closer and grinned, her teeth like tombstones sticking from her gums. “You’ve survived this far by hiding?” She sneered, “Accept the fear, let it mould you. Mould you into something new, and beautiful. You will become part of me. You will be strong.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick warning on this one for descriptions of asphyxiation and violence if it aint for you  
> other than that, enjoy x

Elias sat at his desk, listening to the bustle of The Magnus Institute below him. Yes, it was a little more chaotic than before, and perhaps with a touch more screaming, but ultimately it remained the institute he was proud to head. Everything was going rather swimmingly. There were a few more loose strings to tie up, of course; namely the two missing archival assistants and the small matter of his absent Archivist. He was hoping Jon would return once the ritual was complete. He hadn’t been too concerned at first. After all, Jon had managed to play into Elias’s hands for years now, all the while, trying to actively work against him. He had quite a talent for it.

He’d felt Jon laugh with him as they all watched the sky rip open, and the sky watched them back. Then there was something akin to radio silence after that, he hadn’t heard a peep from Jon in weeks. He couldn't even See what he’d been up to in all this time, though he had a good idea it wasn’t anything particularly productive. It was encouraging to know that Jon was strong enough to block Elias’s gaze, but ultimately, a small annoyance. 

He reached for the tape recorder that had just crackled to life on his desk and smiled. He lifted it nearer to his mouth. “Hello again, Jon.” He said, fighting to keep the amusement from his voice, “It’s nice to know you still want to keep in _touch_.” 

He stood and walked to the window, watching The Eye above the institute roll down to watch him. There was a spider web, strung across the eaves of the window. “I’m not sure how you’re resisting The Beholder’s call, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, given your merits thus far. I just wonder how much longer you can last away from the Archives. Now, I know you’re determined to self destruct, but it applies to your assistants too, you know. None of you have attended to your jobs for weeks, and I’m warning you…” He waved the men waiting at the door into his office, motioning for them to remain silent for the moment with a finger to his lips. The men, who did not have mouths, and simply too many eyes, nodded in unison. The eyes on their hands blinked patiently.

Elias continued, “If you keep on as you are now, this will not reflect well in your performance reviews. You know how much I value my employees, and I’d hate to have to find new staff.” 

Elias watched the men wrestle a struggling woman into the room, forcing her down into the carved oak chair opposite his desk. “Well, I wish you the best. I hope to see you all back in the Archives sooner rather than later. Give Martin and Basira my regards, won’t you?” He turned the tape recorder off and tucked it the top left drawer of his desk, placing it on top of _The Seven Lamps of Architecture_ and the book bound in skin he’d taken from Julia Montauk. He dismissed the many-eyed men with another wave of his hand. They shuffled away silently, the woman watching them warily.

“Now.” He sighed and addressed the woman reluctantly. “How are you, Miss Tonner? A little hungry, perhaps, but that’s to suspected.”

Miss Tonner, to her credit, did not give rise. She sat still and straight backed, impassible. “I’m _fine_ , Jonah.” 

His eye twitched at her use of his real name. He rather enjoyed being Elias, so much that he was hesitant to give up the game. “Hm. That’ll change soon enough, I’m sure.” He sunk into his desk chair, revelling in the feeling of a gaze burning into the back of his neck. “I have a proposition for you.” 

She laughed, a breathy, lifeless thing, “You want me to find Jon, don’t you?” Her voice shook.

“My word, you don’t need the gifts of The Beholder to see that I’m severely understaffed here. Of this I am…painfully aware.” He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, “I was hoping you’d help, you see, the world is now as it should be, but I need a functioning Archive in order to serve The Beholder properly. I’ve helped you, Miss Tonner, I stuck my neck out for you. I didn’t _have_ to give you a position in The Magnus Institute.” 

“Oh, shut up!” She snapped. Her hands were fists on her lap, “Everything you’ve ever done was part of some meticulously planned operation to bring about…well, whatever this is. Don’t try it on like you’re helping me, I know exactly what you’re going to do.” 

Elias was unpleasantly jarred by her outburst. He was glad he’d signed Miss Tonner onto his staff, it had seemed to be enough to keep her Hunt instincts at bay. Otherwise, he realised, he would be buried in Epping Forest by now. 

“Is that so?” Elias murmured. 

“Don’t play stupid. You kept me around because you thought you might need a bloodhound. Now, you do.”

“Well, that much is true.” Elias rifled through the filing cabinet next to the desk, stretching from his chair so he didn't have to stand. He snagged the file he was looking for and placed it on the desk, “But it’s not Jon I want you to find.”

Miss Tonner looked at him sharply, it pleased him that he’d surprised her. Precious little entertained him after over 200 years of consciousness, but surprising people who thought they were in the know was something that would never get old. 

“Then who?” She looked scared, then, and she must’ve been terrified indeed to let such an emotion show on her face. He Knew she was worried he’d tell her to find Basira, and he let her bask in that fear a little longer than necessary. 

“Georgie Barker.”

“ _Why?_ ” She frowned. The fear was gone, replaced with simple, unsatisfying confusion. 

Elias flipped through the file he’d retrieved absently, “If I sent you after Jon, he’d see you coming a mile away. Jon _refuses_ to be called back, and won’t listen to The Beholder.” He was getting a little angry, though he had tried not to. He didn’t like it when things didn't fall into place as they were supposed to, and Jon wasn’t falling into place. “Better that we find alternate ways to ensure his immediate return.” 

“I’m bringing you a hostage, then.” Miss Tonner shook her head slowly, her disagreement evident.

“Of course. It should be easy for you. Detective.” He relished the word in his mouth, a word with sharp edges that cut into Miss Tonner.

Her lip curled, “Fine. Fine, but you have to hold up your end of the deal.” 

“Yes. I’m good with deals.” He slid the file across the desk to her with long, spidery fingers, “I am simply to do what Detective Hussain could not, correct?”

She picked up the file with little interest, “Y-yes. As soon as I return. I don’t care how.” 

“Well then. There’s your scent, bloodhound.” He gestured at the file, which contained all he and The Beholder knew about Georgie Barker. “Take a good sniff.” 

While she flipped though the file, he surreptitiously buzzed the many-eyed men to the office. He waited, and watched her, committing to memory how Miss Tonner acted when not under the influence of The Hunt. It was fascinating to him, to see an Avatar, cut loose from the fear they served. How much strength it must take to resist, even with the gift of The Beholder to keep her tethered to herself.

Much like Jon, he supposed, though Jon was just being petulant at this point, like a child who didn’t want to attend his piano lessons anymore. 

Miss Tonner studied Georgie Barker’s photo with a very familiar sharpness. 

Elias retrieved an envelope from his suit pocket at the same time as the many-eyed men burst into the room. He sat on the edge of his desk and watched Miss Tonner as the men grabbed an arm each and forced her to the floor. He hadn’t told them to be so rough, but he hadn’t told them to be careful, either. He held the envelope between thumb and forefinger.

“What is this? I agreed, I said I’d do what you asked!” She gasped, the files scattered on the floor around her. Georgie Barker smiled up at them from the photo Miss Tonner had been studying. She didn’t sound angry yet, just shocked. 

Elias gestured to the men with a tip of his head, and the one closest to him delivered a swift kick to Miss Tonner’s ribs. “A little more incentive. I’m not stupid, though you seem to think I am. What, I’ll let you go, and you’ll run off back to Hussain?”

Her face was being ground into the carpet, one of the many-eyed men’s foot was between her shoulder blades. Her eyes still directed all her hatred towards him. “No.”

He opened the envelope and made a show of straightening out the employment contract inside, one he knew Miss Tonner would recognise from signing it a few weeks ago. 

“No. Please.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Beneath it, there was a growl, waiting patiently at the back of her throat.

Elias took the rubber stamp from its holder on his desk, pressed it into the ink a few times, then brought it down over the top of Miss Tonner’s signature. ‘TERMINATED’ it declared in red, angry letters. He threw the contract into the fireplace behind him for good measure. She growled, her hands curling into the carpet, still resisting.

“I think we’ll need more than that, gentlemen.” Elias sighed. He didn’t particularly want it to get too messy, especially not in his office, though he was willing to make an exception if needed. “Miss Tonner, resist The Hunt’s call for much longer and you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Bastard.” She fought against the men holding her down now, tugging ferociously against their grip. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you Magnus, I swear it.” The roar was louder now, it was making every word she said ragged and savage. 

“Georgie Barker,” He said, leaning down to tuck the photo in Miss Tonner’s top pocket, “Find her, and you can do what you want.” 

Miss Tonner was changing, The Hunt was claiming her again. She would chase the last scent under her nose to the ends of the Earth. Of that, Elias was sure. 

* * *

_Jon!_ He tried to say the name out loud, but his throat was too tight. He could just about force his lips to form the word, but his voice was stuck underneath the vice-like grip of The Flesh. _I need to breathe,_ he thought. _I need help!_

Martin tried to pull back, back into the mists that would allow him to escape the woman’s crushing hand, but they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be summoned. Perhaps The Lonely would rather relish in his fear than help its patron escape. It would mean a rather sticky end for him.

“Such a small addition to my collection, but I haven’t seen any friends in so long. It would be a shame to pass up.” She said, “Now, don’t look so sad, pet.”

The woman clamped her free hand over his head. He was terrified to note that her hands were big enough to encircle his entire skull, her thumb jabbed into his neck and her fingers hooked into the jut of his eye-sockets. He felt like his brain might explode. Perhaps he’d die faster if his skull was crushed, slowly dying from oxygen deprivation was turning out to be rather unpleasant.

He heard a crash from the back of the shop, then a low murmur, Basira’s voice.

“Martin!” He heard Jon’s voice distantly, floating out from the stockroom. “Martin!?” Closer now.

He saw them appear through the door to the stockroom of the shop, staggering when they saw their opponent. He didn’t know if Jon had actually somehow heard him, calling for him in his head, or just realised Martin had not followed them into the stockroom. Basira aimed at the woman, but Martin knew she wouldn’t dare take a shot. They were too close together, she’d risk shooting him. As much as Martin would love to not die of asphyxiation, being shot was also not ideal.

Jon froze. He held his hands out like there was glass between him and the woman. He was possibly trying to placate her. He looked at once furious and concerned. His features couldn't quite comfortably accommodate both at once.

The woman’s grinning face dropped. Her lips drew slowly over her horrific teeth like a macabre curtain fall. “Archivist,” she said, though it was hard to decipher her tone through her voice.

Martin was still struggling. She wasn’t letting go of him, she still wasn’t letting go. His fingers clawed at hers in desperation, though they must’ve felt like a child’s, pawing at her, demanding attention. The air in his lungs had been replaced with liquid fire and it was slowly clawing its way up his throat. His vision was clouding, silver-white spots like Jon’s worm scars danced in front of his eyes.

“Jon, I need a clear shot. Tell me where to shoot.” Basira barked urgently.

He ignored her, “Drop him. Now.” Jon’s voice was low. 

“Ahhhh, the boy is your companion. I see, I see, I understand. No worries. I tried to make friends many times, they always end up a part of me. Absorbed.” She shrugged, this was of no concern to her. Such is life, the shrug said. “Flesh twisted into flesh, it’s the way it’s meant to be. This way, we can all stay together.” She loosened her grip slightly as she gesticulated, allowing Martin to choke down some air. “Friends? They don’t really suit me, I suppose.” 

Jon looked… un-Jon-like. 

“Jon.” Basira warned. She presumably noticed the un-Jon-ness and predicted something bad happening.

“Tell me why you’re here.” Jon said, and the air around them became heavier, “Put him down, and tell me everything.” 

She released Martin. She didn’t protest, hadn’t resisted. He slid to his knees, his eyes stinging with tears, throat burning and bruised. Martin found himself oddly compelled to tell Jon a story and the question wasn’t even aimed at him. He busied himself with filling his starving lungs with air instead, hands bracing the ground.

For a moment, he thought the woman was resisting and braced himself to watch her head explode with the effort. He was almost relieved when he heard her clear her throat. 

“I’m-“ She started, but Jon stopped her with a slight shake of his head. 

**Click**

Nobody moved to stop the tape recorder that had materialised in Jon’s hand. He didn’t have the good graces to look surprised at its presence. He just held onto it, a grim look on his pock-marked face. Martin thought distantly that it may have been of some comfort to him, a small remnant of his old life.

“Statement of Selina Marshall, regarding her experience serving The Flesh in the new world.” He said. His eyes were wide now, almost backlit, like cat’s eyes on a motorway. Staring into her, and Seeing her. He belonged in this scene. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Martin wasn’t sure why he’d noticed that.

“When I was a young woman, I worked on a farm.” Selina began, entranced, “It was a small business, just a family run operation. They were an egg farm, you see, but kept a few pigs and cows and the like.”

_Flesh stories always seem to take place on a damn farm,_ Martin thought. He crawled away from her while she was engrossed in her story, grabbing the pocket knife that had skittered from his bag when he was attacked. He tuned out what Selina was saying and caught Basira’s eye. She nodded and positioned herself near Jon, taking aim at Selina. Neither of them seemed to notice her.

Martin crept up behind Selina and flicked the knife open, took aim.

“Then you, Archivist, you brought the fears into fruition. The world became right. The world became… _better._ This was it was always meant to be. I realised my full potential.” Selina’s voice was reverent. “Everyone was scared, but not me. Not me, because I _knew_ what I was meant to do, who I was meant to serve.”

Martin forced the knife, with what little he had left in him, into her neck. The knife slid between bone and tendon. He remembered Melanie fighting The Flesh with much difficulty before, so he hoped Basira had a plan further than just ‘shoot it’. Selina didn’t scream when she was stabbed, but the noise that did come out could've been interpreted as one. It was awful, at once high-pitched and sonorous, cut though with a whine like a dying animal. Martin realised she was still trying to force her story through severed vocal cords. 

Jon still listened, eyebrows drawn, his head tilted slightly in interest. Martin wondered if he could still decipher what she was saying, still hungrily lapping up the information he had been starved of for weeks.

“Now, Basira!” Martin yelled hoarsely, then fell back into the mists of The Lonely. He was glad they’d actually been there this time, ready to catch him neatly like the net of a lacrosse stick. He didn’t hear the shots in his isolation, but counted for how many bullets he’d seen Basira had left, then two extra. His breath echoed in his ears, the sudden silence was jarring. Martin hoped he’d stayed incorporeal for long enough, since his head was aching with overexertion. He dropped the mists when he could no longer hold them, and knew that would be the last time he used them for a few days at the least. He was desperately tired.

Martin found himself standing over a mound of meat that, had he not just seen Selina standing seconds ago, he would not have believed it was a human. He supposed perhaps human wasn’t the right word, but he liked to think of Jon as human, and his logic just applied across all Avatars. 

“Took all the rest of my bullets, plus my bat, and a bit of persuasion.” Basira tapped the body with the toe of her boot. Her bat was indeed hanging from her left hand, dripping with gore. 

“It’s a shame I missed it.” It wasn’t. He really, really hated violence. He stepped around the pile of meat.

“Are you okay?” She asked, holding a hand out when he staggered.

“Yeah. Let’s just get to the car.”

They shouldered their bags and left the meat behind them, Martin felt a bit sorry for the owner of the shop, if they had such a mess to return to. Jon shot him an exasperated look like he’d heard Martin’s thought. They followed Basira into the back alley, the lingering fear pushing them into a quick march back to the car. Jon had been silent for a while. Martin didn’t ask him what was wrong, but started laying the foundation of the conversation they’d have once they felt safe enough to have it. 

The car journey, though short, was uncomfortably silent, since Martin couldn't motivate himself to speak and Basira didn’t seem to be making an effort either. He couldn’t blame her for that, she spoke with action. She had already said her piece with the shots she’d fired into Selina. 

Jon sat in the backseat. His attention was clearly elsewhere, somewhere out in the fields that rolled past the glassless windows. Martin just wanted a nice cup of tea and a sit down, and to preferably avoid any existential problems Jon may present when they got back.

They were on the uneven dirt track leading up to Daisy’s safe house within the hour, Martin was finding it hard to keep a straight face as he watched Jon’s head hit the roof with each bump. Perhaps he was a little hysterical. 

Basira was the first to leave the car when they drew up next to the house. She yanked the hand-brake on with more force than absolutely necessary, and tucked the keys in her back pocket. “I’m going out for a bit.” She said resolutely, which meant she could be gone for a while. He also didn’t blame her for getting out while she still could. 

Martin nodded and muttered a polite, “See you, then.” 

He got out the car and unlocked the front door, then waited, watching Jon slowly follow him in. Once they were both inside, he locked and dead-bolted the door. The small cottage was in the state of disarray he’d left it, the water he’d boiled on the stove was cold now. He lit the Trangia and set the water to heat up; he had a feeling that he wasn’t the only one who needed tea. 

Jon sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. Basira had piled blankets on the dusty two seater, claiming it as her bed, and it felt wrong to use it as a sofa now. 

Martin sunk to the floor next to him. He was surprised when Jon slowly pitched towards him, almost like he was fainting in slow-motion. He jumped minutely at the contact of Jon’s shoulder meeting his. Jon breathed an apology and Martin shook his head quickly in dismissal. 

“What do you want to do?” Martin asked, though didn’t know how his question would be interpreted. He tried not to let his voice strain with Jon’s closeness. 

“Hmmm.” Jon’s head came to rest on his shoulder and Martin could feel his voice rumble against his skin, “Can we just have some tea?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then i died. rip.

It was dark outside when Jon jolted awake, almost upsetting the stove when his leg uncontrollably kicked out. He set the stove right and turned up the battery-powered lantern next to him, throwing out a bit more light in the room. It wasn’t like there was anything encroaching a ‘daytime’, he certainly hadn’t seen the sun rise or set since the world ended. Instead, day was now cast in a strange half-light. Pewter skies, heavy mists, the sort of day you might encounter in purgatory. 

Now, whatever was left of the sun had set, and anyone outside in the darkness without a light source would be consumed. He lit another lantern for good measure, he was sure Martin wouldn’t be disturbed by the light.

He was still tired, and hungry, he felt exactly the same as he had when he fell asleep. He looked over at Martin, who laid with his head on the sofa behind them, his hands resting neatly over his belly. He looked a little like one of those teddies, the ones that were stuffed very generously with wool in a certain way to keep the same amiable shape. It was an awfully embarrassing comparison to make, but he found himself making them more and more with Martin.

He didn’t wake him up, but dragged one of Basira’s blankets from behind him and threw it over Martin’s legs. They hadn’t spoken much since coming back from town. He had gotten the feeling that Martin hadn’t the energy left to talk and they’d eventually lapsed into a companionable silence. He wanted to let Martin rest for now.

Jon placed his mug in the sink, though they hadn’t seen running water in days so there would be no washing up. He drew back the curtain above the sink and peered through a slat in the wood he and Martin had used to board up the windows. He had yet to find a window that was intact, or anything made from glass or ceramic for that matter. They were lucky most of Daisy’s mugs were enamel or tin, so at least they had receptacles for Martin’s tea. 

He watched from the window as a small group of people, men and women, stumbled down the farm track opposite the cottage. He blew out the candle nearest the window, plunging the kitchen into a more absolute darkness, then resumed watching. The people were slow, some of them dragging a leg or clutching an arm like it was dead weight. He couldn’t see them with his normal eyes, but he Knew they were hives, each playing host to a different manner of creature. 

He had seen them before, stumbling aimlessly around the fields on a misty morning earlier that week, the low sun casting them as mysterious silhouettes in a macabre play. They were easier to look at as shadows. Now he could see the squirming beetles and worms and silverfish, eating away at their hosts with passion. Jon watched them until they had disappeared inside one of the farmhouses, filing into the hollow doorway like pigs into an abattoir. He closed the curtain and came away from the window, feeling odd. 

He relit the candle by the sink, which took some persuasion. The vestiges of the darkness that had been creeping around him retreated. _As if I’d be so careless,_ he thought snidely into the dark that still edged the room.

The kitchen table offered a tape recorder, sitting politely on top of an open book he’d been reading that morning. It hadn’t been there before, so that meant it was from the Institute. He’d been receiving tapes from The Magnus Institute since ending the world, though he’d kept it from Martin and Basira. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t want to worry them, or perhaps he didn’t want them to know. The tapes only seemed to document the archives, mostly just white noise, occasionally screams and a shuffle of paper. Sometimes he could hear Elias’s, now Jonah Magnus’s voice in them, distant, unaware he was being listened to. 

He thought he might’ve been asking for the tapes, in some way, because he had to know what was happening at the Institute, much like a wolf had to hunt, or a fish had to swim. He also thought The Eye probably wanted him to hear them, and so he did, because he tended to do exactly as The Eye intended, by his own will or not.

He sat, nudging the kitchen door till it stood ajar, and started the tape. Elias’s cold, smug voice came weedily from the recorder’s tiny speaker, but still managed to fill the room as if he was in it. 

“Hello again, Jon.” 

This was the first time he’d actually addressed him directly in the tapes, which meant that he knew Jon had been listening in. He felt stupid for not realising, of course Elias would notice, Elias noticed absolutely everything in the archives. He hoped he hadn’t compromised them in his eagerness to listen in, hoped that if Elias could see him too, he would’ve dragged him back to the Institute by now.

Jon listened to the tape from start to finish, feeling as if Elias had been breathing down his neck the whole time, the words reminding him too much of Elias’s last message to him. The message he had foolishly read aloud and ended the world with. 

Though it wasn’t a proper statement, the tape had satiated him somewhat. He wondered if Elias had done something to it, but quickly quashed the thought. It was just paranoia. 

“Was that Elia- Jonah’s voice?” Martin’s voice floated sleepily from the doorway.

Jon would have jumped, had he not Known Martin was there just before he announced himself, “Martin. I-I thought you still were asleep.” He said.

“You’ve stopped wearing your glasses.” Martin observed nonsensically, his expression complicated.

Jon frowned, “Yes. I don’t think I need them anymore.”

“No,” He replied, draping his arms over Jon’s shoulders, leant against the back of the chair, “I don’t suppose you do.” 

Somewhere under the words they actually said was a deeper conversation, the one they’d been putting off. The one Jon knew Martin was trying not to have, the one which said ‘You’ve changed irreversibly and I don’t know how to change with you.’

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked instead, face turned to watch Martin from the corner of his eye. 

Martin flapped a casual hand against Jon’s shoulder, “Knackered.”

“Yes, I know that feeling.” He pushed back from the table. The tape glared up at him. 

Martin produced a dry chuckle, “If only it was just sleep we needed.”

“Well, sleep would be nice, at the very least.”

Martin looked at him like he’d told a joke, and he realised they’d engaged in their old work-place small talk, stilted and awkward. 

“I’m sorry.” Jon said. His hands were shaking. 

Martin nodded. “Despite the apocalypse, I still don’t know how to do this. This should be the easiest part, all things considered.”

“No, it’s my fault.” Jon stood to face him properly. He was taken with how grey Martin’s eyes had become since becoming an Avatar of The Lonely, and how much it suited him. “I’m just not good at this. I never have been.” 

Martin rubbed a hand through his hair, “Well, I’m not exactly great either” He chuckled nervously, as if just noticing they were alone. The serious expression was gone from his face, and he was simply Martin, the one that brought him tea and checked in on him. 

Then Jon was kissing him. There had been no decision made, just a want. Martin’s laughter bubbled around his lips in surprise and they stumbled back, against the wall. Jon briefly wondered if the fear powers heard Martin’s laughter amongst the screams, and hated it. He hoped they did.

He kissed Martin for all the air he had left in him, his hands tangled in his hair, then broke away to breathe. Martin smiled like a secret, and led him through to what might’ve once been a bedroom. It was now just a bare mattress with their sleeping bags on top. Jon had left his statements and tapes on his side of the bed, so he moved them aside with his foot. They fell against the dusty mattress, laughing all the way. They found each-others lips once more, and Jon turned so that he was leaning over Martin, his hair brushing against both their cheeks. 

He felt Martin’s hand twisting into his shirt, the other at his hip, somehow gentle, even as he felt Martin’s nails scraping his skin. His shirt was hitched up, he felt a hand on the small of his back, skin on skin. It was such a light touch, it tickled faintly. A sigh escaped him.

He was suddenly conscious of what he should be doing, where his hands had to be, if Martin was okay with this. How could he know what Martin wanted in return? How far did he want to go?

Martin laid back without warning, and Jon wondered if he’d messed it up. He thought of Georgie, her faint looks of disappointment when he’d pull away, though she’d hid it well. In the end, they were hurting each other. Maybe that was how it would always be for him.

“It’s alright, Jon.” Martin whispered, interrupting his thoughts abruptly. His Lonely-grey eyes were bright in the dim room, “You’re fine as you are.” 

Jon frowned, “How did you know what I was…?” 

Martin stifled a giggle, “Well, from the way your eyes are glowing, I’m guessing you were asking The Beholder a lot of questions. And when I say eyes, I mean all of them. There’s… I mean, they’re everywhere.”

“Ugh,” Jon moaned, falling back beside him, “I’m sorry.” How embarrassing. How many Avatars asked the entity they served about their love life? Perhaps just Agnes and even then, just to ask how best to burn her lovers face off. 

He shook his head and took Jon’s hand tightly, “You don’t owe me anything, okay? I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uneasy.”

Jon nodded sagely, “You could’ve died today.” Jon had taken Martin’s advice immediately and changed the subject. “You could’ve died, and all I wanted to do was take a statement.”

Martin rolled onto his side to face him and reached out a hand to touch his cheek. Their noses were very close. “I wasn’t expecting you to save me. We’re not fighters like Basira, and… the others.”

Hearing that, Jon felt profoundly sad, and useless. He was meant to be a powerful Avatar, one that had caused the end of the world, and Martin didn’t expect him to save him? 

Jon huffed a humourless laugh, “Yeah, all I’m good for is forcing information from scared people who don’t want to relive their trauma.”

“Jon…”

“I could have forced you to tell me you loved me, and I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, if you did, I could only tell you the truth.”

Jon smiled at that. “I suppose…”

“I don’t care that you could Know everything about me, Jon. I don’t care that you could ask me anything and I would have to tell you.” Martin said, his voice flat and serious. “I think I would, even if we were both just human, and you couldn’t force me.”

“I would never force you-“

Martin stopped him with a kiss, and didn’t withdraw as he said, “No, I know you wouldn’t. You’re scared of people fearing you. I don’t. I’m not scared at all.”

Jon was about to argue, but thought better. He rubbed his thumb under Martin’s eye. “I’m glad. Though a little worried. If I’m not scary, and I’m not a fighter, what kind of Avatar of the end am I?” He said a little jokingly. 

“A human one.” Martin said immediately. “A little too human, I think.”

* * *

Basira had spent sixteen days on her own when the world ended. She had been at The Magnus Institute the day it happened. She had left Daisy, who was unrecognisable and ripping into an inert form she couldn't make out, she had ran outside. She had heard people around her scream, the commuters that made up 7am London’s population dropped lattes and briefcases and ran. She had stopped in her tracks to tilt her head back and observe the world as it changed. 

She watched The Eye open over the Institute, and the sky started to watch them all back. She watched some of her fellow commuters change immediately, succumbing easily to fears that had already plagued them in the world before. Some fell and writhed, bodies morphing, bones cracking. Some disappeared from her view, lost to mist, or darkness. Some ran into doorways that offered them a way off the streets, which slammed shut after them in a flash of yellow like a canary’s feathers floating from the cat’s mouth. Some just stood, frozen, dreading.

She hadn’t seen Daisy. She had accepted that Daisy was gone and lost to the hunt, and she had taken this fact and stowed it next to the knowledge that the world was ending, and she didn’t think about it again. 

Basira had stared up, up, up. She had stared until a voice reached her through the chaos, 

“The ground is so thick with them I can hardly see.” A man to the left of her had said, “Only the sky is clear, I think, and even that is dead now.”

“Everything you’d want in an apocalypse.” She had said, finally looking at the man beside her with trepidation. 

Then Oliver Banks had given her a Waitrose bag for life full of tapes and helped her jump-start a car, and told her The Archivist could probably use some help. She wasn’t sure why he had helped her that day, or what service it could possibly do him to help Jon, but she followed his instructions nonetheless. 

The next two weeks were spent on the road, following a collection of old A-Z maps she’d found under the passenger seat of the old Escort. Not exactly her first choice of apocalypse transportation, but much better than walking. Her phone had stopped working pretty soon after the eyes appeared in the sky, and navigating by out-dated maps alone, it had taken her a good while to make it to Scotland. 

She had wondered then, and many times since, why she was going to such lengths to help Jon. She could lie to herself, it was for Martin, with whom she’d grown close to during her time at the Institute, but that wasn’t true. She still knew him only like a prisoner knew their cell-mate, not bonded by trauma, but forced together by circumstance.

She helped Jon because what else would she do? Sit and scream at the sky? She had to keep moving, keep working towards a goal, because if she didn’t, she’d remember all the things she’d tucked away when the world ended. She’d remember Daisy, and how she’d failed her. 

Now, having left Jon and Martin back at the safe-house, she had taken the car and driven out to the beach. It had been a mess in the town. She knew there was no way her colleagues would have made it out without her. Or, perhaps they would have, powers combined. She knew she couldn’t underestimate Jon. Or Martin, for that matter. 

She parked the car amongst the abandoned ones near the parking meters and headed down to the shore. The sand felt almost slimy and wrong, even though her boots, but she didn’t dwell on it. 

A man stood, watching the tide with a look of vague sympathy. She drew level with him, and nodded, but didn’t look at him. 

“Hello Oliver.” She said

“I’ve seen your friend.” Oliver said, and waited for her outburst. 

She didn’t provide, instead, she frowned in curiosity, “Friend?”

Oliver sighed, “She was chasing a new trail. Jonah Magnus has her under his wing, I believe. She looked to be very focused on her goal. Animalistic.”

Chasing a new trail… Daisy had to be coming after them, sent by Elias. She knew Elias wouldn’t just leave Jon to live out a peaceful existence in Scotland. 

She had to ask…”Why are you helping us? What good does it do you?”

Oliver shrugged, “We all answer to someone. It’s in my best interests.”

Coming from an Avatar of the end, that didn’t bode well for them. Still, if Daisy truly was coming after them, full lost to the hunt, they’d need to move immediately. Wrenching Martin and Jon from their cosy den of domesticity would be a challenge, but she had no choice. There was a wild thing in her chest that trilled at the news that Daisy was alive. She wanted to see her. 

“Whatever your reasons, thank you.” Basira turned from the shore and stomped back up the path to the car. There were a lot of preparations to make.

* * *

_The hives were restless, as they always were. They sat at the tables and in the sitting room, one stared into the open fridge, another peeled its ruined lips over rocky teeth and smiled. A small one sat in front of the smashed television, shaking its shoulders and producing a buzzing sound. It was play acting at a life it only remembered in echoes and in paper clippings and in peels of laughter. It couldn't laugh anymore, so the sound was foreign now. Its lungs were full of wasps, and wasps did not know how to laugh._

_The hives were not sure why they moved together as a pack. They had all the company they needed in the insects they housed. Perhaps they had once been a family, and the insects liked family. They liked to be a part of something._

_The wind outside the house whistled through the empty windows and played against the doors and curtains and anything that could move. The hives felt the wind, cold and angry, but were happy to be buffeted as long as the insects were warm inside their flesh. They moved inside the hives with such ferocity, such passion, that they wondered why they were once human at all. Why would anyone be human, they thought, when you could be a church?_

_They all saw the Spider, even those whose eyes had been consumed by the loving creatures inside of them. It watched them with eyes that betrayed little and observed much._

_They watched the Spider back, for three days, as it spun a web to sit in. The Spider was trying to tell them something, but they had not the right ears with which to listen._

_The Spider despaired at the communication barrier. It spun another web, and it said “Go.”_

_“Go,” Said the Spider, and so they did. They did so love insects, all manner of the creatures. Creatures like themselves. The spider did not tell them that it spun flies and wasps and cockroaches into its webbing and ate them up. The spider did not tell them that it was not an insect, but an arachnid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, they actually kissed in this one. idk how romance fuckin works soooo hopefully it wasnt completely robotic lol


End file.
